The Ends of a Broomstick
by pseudonym
Summary: Everything has to balance out; in order to get something, you have to sacrifice something else. Who or what will Harry choose? • DH • slash, angst, drama • DISCONTINUED
1. Prologue

**TITLE: **The Ends of A Broomstick (Prologue)

**AUTHOR NAME: **pseudonym

**AUTHOR EMAIL: **andreabasrahotmail.com****

**CATEGORY: **Drama

**SUB CATEGORY: **Slash

**KEY WORDS: **Harry, Draco, slash, balance

**RATING: **R

**SPOILERS: **SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF

**SUMMARY: **Everything has to balance out; in order to get something, you have to sacrifice something else.Draco has the worst summer ever listening to his father complain about the unattainable demise of the Boy Who Lived and decides to do both him and his father a favour. But first, Draco must work around the fact that he's going to miss antagonizing his rival.

Harry recieves an anonymous birthday gift: a diary. He returns to Hogwarts for his final and most troublesome year yet. The mysterious gift, the ongoing threat of Voldemort, and Malfoy's sudden change in character keep him busy - too busy to realize that if he's not careful, he might up losing something dear to him.

**DISCLAIMER:**This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books,

Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

_Prologue:_

**Hard to Alight from A Tiger's Back   
**_(once you take on a thorny task, you'll find it hard to get rid of it)___

* * *

The second night back at school, despite the weather being a little on the cool side, provided Harry with an hour or two to exercise his broom and work away the restlessness that had inevitably seeped into his bones throughout the course of another summer at the wretched Dursleys. While everyone else busied themselves with catching up with one another, playing wizard's chess or Exploding Snap, and even some early studying, Harry had excused himself, saying he wanted to practice some new Quidditch moves he had been thinking about over his vacation. Of course, no one denied him his pleasure as most of the Gryffindor's were well aware of his home away from home.

Goosepimples prickled up along Harry's arms once he ascended into the air, greeting the cool breeze that ruffled through his slightly shaggy ebony locks. For a short while, he lapped around the pitch practising dives and just relinquishing the freedom that Hogwarts allowed. When he tired of that particular activity, Harry leaned down against his broom handle, resting a cheek against the smooth surface, and slowed down to a lazy pace so that he could collect his thoughts: the real reason why he wanted to escape for a few hours.

A most peculiar event had happened during the middle of the summer; actually, just around the week of his birthday, Harry recalled. Everything had been going normal, as normal as life could get at the Dursley's, when an unfamiliar owl had tapped incessantly against his window at four o'clock in the morning. Groggily, Harry had stumbled across the room to displace the latch. A large, regal bird flew in swiftly, deposited a plain looking package on to the bed and then disappeared back off into the night. Hushing Hedwig gently, Harry went to the bed and picked up the package. Sturdy brown paper enveloped the rectangular shaped parcel and a scraggly shoelace held the wrapping on. _'Who could have sent it?'_ ran across Harry's mind as he searched for a return address or any clue or indication of who it could have been; unfortunately, there was nothing to help identify the sender. Perhaps the package had been delivered to the wrong house, Harry had thought as he unfastened the knotted shoelace and slid the paper off.

A thin, black leather, buckle-bound book fell into Harry's hands, to which he promptly let it clatter to the floor; it was a diary. Who would send him a diary? Perhaps Hermione had sent it as an early birthday gift, but a card usually came along with it. It couldn't have been Ron, Harry would have been able to recognize the owl and he doubted they had gotten a new one within the past month. Curious now, after deducing who it couldn't have been, Harry bent down to pick the item up from the dusty floor.

A diary, usually a harmless item, had brought Harry a vast amount of trouble four years ago; he was now wary of diaries that reached him anonymously. The leather that covered the diary was plush and soft to the touch; the thing reeked of extravagance and he bet that it must have cost quite a few galleons. But, who would spend a small fortune on such an item and then have it delivered in regular post paper?

Harry had been very cautious and suspicious about opening his unusual gift, so he hadn't. Instead, he tucked it safely away underneath his mattress until he could put it in his trunk. Once it was there, he buried it at the bottom, hoping to forget about it. But, for every single spare moment since he had locked it away, he had been unable to stop thinking about it. It was a constant nagging at the back of his brain and Harry often contemplated just opening the front cover to take a look at what was inside.

The beginnings of rain splattered against Harry's glasses causing him to sit up. He had been so enwrapped in his thoughts that ominous black clouds had snuck into the sky, and a bitterly cold and ghastly wind had surrounded him without his awareness. While yanking his round-framed lenses off of his face and using the bottom of his shirt to clear off the droplets of water, a heavy cloud decided to empty its contents in a downpour of rage. Slipping his now useless glasses back on and gripping a tighter hold on his Firebolt, Harry attempted to head back towards the shadowed castle, battling violently against the wind.

As the harsh rain whipped through the thick air, splaying fine strands of woven silver against pale, delicate features, a black cloaked individual tightly hugged their arms around themselves in an attempt to keep in as much body heat as possible. The temperature outside had substantially dropped once the rain had begun. Casting his eyes upwards, he carefully observed a waterlogged student that was struggling against the howling wind, unable to keep himself from looking away. Intrigued, the thickly cloaked figure peered more adventurously out from behind the green and silver branded Quidditch stand for a less restricted view.

More out of habit than spite, a trademark smirk gracefully slid onto pale lips, though it did not reach his eyes as the scene unfolded before them. Intent eyes watched as the infamous student's grip on their broom slid away, leaving them hanging upside down by only their legs, their spectacles plummeting toward the ground in a downward spiral. Slender fingers gripped the stand and a hesitant foot moved to step forward, but stopped at the last moment as the figure swung a hand blindly upwards and began to heave themselves up. A small sigh of relief released itself through his pursed lips just as the broom handle slipped once more from the student's grasp and they descended quickly twenty five feet to the ground, landing in a heap of limbs.

Harry worked like an addiction: always present, always providing an immeasurable, unfulfillable craving that bled through his veins and threatened to consume him. He was a drug that sent his emotions - any emotion - into overdrive. Though what greatly bothered the figure was his own inability to break his habit; it terribly tried his already diminished lack of patience. After months of meditating on solving this matter, only one conclusion made the most sense: The only way to break the addiction would be to destroy the temptation, and Harry possibly dying from a pathetic slip of the fingers was not the way he was supposed to die. No, if Harry's untimely demise was to be done right, he was going to have to do it himself.


	2. Chapter 01

_Chapter One:  
_**Good Fortune or Bad Luck?  
**_(do not be overjoyed over good fortune and be saddened over bad luck; t__here__ are always unforeseeable turns for the better or worse)_

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_Harry scrambled to gather all of his books and hand the appropriate ones back to his friend. Once he neared the bottom of the pile, a familiar yet out of place object caught his eye. He shoved away the offending textbook and picked up the tinier, more plush than usual, buckle bound... journal. The one that was supposed to be in the bottom of his trunk. _

_So why was it in Hermione's pile of books? _

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"Rise and shine, Potter," Draco breathed quietly from his rather uncomfortable, plastic chair that Madam Pomfrey had so graciously thrown at him. Oh, how he despised that woman! It wasn't enough that she so obviously favoured Potter when they had both managed to land themselves in the hospital. All he had been doing was innocently standing at Potter's bedside after having trudged Merlin knows how far through the disgusting mud and torrential rain to drag Golden Boy's broken frame into the castle. There had been absolutely no _need_ for that disrespectful action. If anything, the stupid witch and the old crackpot who was running this damned school should have been _grateful _that he even bothered to waste his time on their precious _Harry_.

Of course, though, Pomfrey had been quite shocked to see him, of all people, appear at the doors of the infirmary with Potter's limp body in his grasp.

_"Good heavens!" Madam Pomfrey shrieked, throwing her hand to her mouth and quickly shooing Draco into the hospital wing. "What on earth did you do to him?"_

"Nothing," Draco sneered, graciously letting Harry's body fall from his hands on to the floor. "The stupid twit didn't have enough sense to get off his broom in the middle of a storm. Always tries to be the best at everything."

Either Madam Pomfrey did not hear him or was purposely ignoring him, but she gave Draco a stern look before demanding that he place him on to a bed at that very moment. No sooner had Malfoy thrown the mangled body on to the closest bed when the old bat head himself had glided into the room.

"Poppy, you wouldn't happen to have any Pepper-Up potion? It seems as though I have caught a bit of a cold." The usual twinkle in his eye momentarily faded as his gaze fell upon the small commotion occurring within the hospital wing.

"Ah, Mr. Malfoy..." Dumbledore said, moving to Harry's bedside and watching Poppy work her magic on the broken student, applying a wound-cleaning potion that induced a purple, hazy smoke to settle upon the room. "What happened here?"

"He's quite battered, Albus." Poppy motioned toward the large bluish bruises that had begun to pop up along almost every bit of skin that was not covered up by Harry's robe. "Took a nasty fall, I'd say. Isn't that what you said?" she asked, glancing at Draco. "He's hit his head quite badly, still unconscious."

Dumbledore turned away from the bed and placed his hand on the blond's shoulder, directing them out of the infirmary, informing Madam Pomfrey that he would be back to check up on Harry in a little while.

"What?" Draco demanded after having the headmaster's thoughtful gaze rest upon him for several minutes. "If you're assuming I did something to your precious Potter, I suggest you trying asking Mr. Golden Boy yourself!"

"I'm not assuming anything, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore replied calmly, motioning for Draco to have a seat on one of the benches. "I was simply going to thank you for bringing Harry here and seeking medical attention for him."   
  
Draco mentally slapped himself in the head, careful to keep his face neutral.

"But, since you seem to know a bit more about this situation than I do, and since Mr. Potter looks as though he'll be out of commission for a little while, why don't you tell me what happened?"

Draco ran his hand through sopping wet, mud-caked hair, which was absolutely revolting. As soon as he was done here, he would sneak into the Prefect's bathroom for a very long bath; he currently felt disgusting and that probably meant he looked and smelled disgusting as well. His lip curled into a scowl. His robes were not even distinguishable as being black anymore and were in a worse state than his hair.

"I was going for a walk..." Draco began, truthfully. Crabbe and Goyle were arguing over who got which bed and just the mere grunts that they spoke in was enough to set up the beginnings of a headache, one of which he did not need. That wasn't the actual reason behind his exit though. It was a well-known fact that Potter's relatives hated him tremendously. Apparently, all of his belongings were locked away at the beginning of each summer, including his precious Firebolt. Draco credited the Weasel's rambunctious voice for sharing that bit of information with the whole library. Since he most likely knew more about The Boy Who Lived than Harry did of himself, Draco had a sneaking suspicion that the second he could get away, he would head directly for the Quidditch pitch. Draco knew from experience that there was nothing more exhilarating and invigorating than you, your broom, and the endless sky where worries, obligations, and _rules_ did not hold any significance. Yes, that is where Potter would go so that he could bask himself in freedom from whatever made his summer so hellish.

"... to take advantage of the nice weather while it lasted." It was hard not to let sarcasm lace his words. Did it really matter what story he made up? Draco knew what Dumbledore thought of him, and to be quite honest, he was positive that he held true to every single comment directed towards him. Everyone, not just Dumbledore, thought of him as malicious, nasty, petty, vindictive, and downright manipulative - everything a Malfoy should be. No, it made absolutely no difference as to what words came out of his mouth, truthful or not; people always believed what they wanted to believe, didn't they? There was never room for change. The only difference between whether he told the truth or a fanciable, made-up tale was the amount of damage he could inflict upon someone.

Glancing up to watch for any sort of reaction towards his derisive tone, Draco gave a sickly-sweet smile at the Headmaster's impassive expression. So, either he wasn't phased by the sarcasm, or he was simply choosing to ignore it. This tiny fact bothered Draco beyond belief; no one ignored a Malfoy, ever.

"I walked around the lake for a bit until I noticed someone flying around the pitch. It was beginning to get dark out so I didn't notice that it was Potter until I was by the stands."   
  
"How did Mr. Potter end up upon the ground?" Dumbledore inquired evenly.

"He fell," Draco stated, making sure he kept eye contact with the old man. A subtle way to let him know he wasn't lying and he didn't hex him so that he'd fall off. There was no way he was getting any blame from Potter's stupidity; his Father specifically told him to keep out of trouble this year, that he didn't have the patience to deal with his ignorance. However, as he thought of it now, it wouldn't have been a bad idea to tell his father that Potter had died after he 'accidentally' fell off his broom. But, no... Potter would meet his death by Draco's hands; Malfoy didn't want anyone else having the satisfaction or glory of such a triumphant event.

"How so?"

"His fingers slipped, I guess. He was hanging on by only his legs and when he went to swing himself up, he lost his grasp." At this, Draco shrugged. "Stupid Potter." ... clearly fame wasn't everything, was it? He couldn't help but mentally add one of Snape's (very few) witty comments.   
  
Thin-lipped, Dumbledore let out a weary sigh. "That will be enough, Mr. Malfoy, unless you have anything else to say that relates to the accident."

Draco shook his head, grimacing as his normally soft locks left a smear of dirt across his face.

"Then that is all for now. You may leave." Dumbledore gave a nod to dismiss Draco before adjusting his robes and striding back into the infirmary.

Wasting no time at all, Draco left the corridor and headed to the Prefect's bathroom so that no one would see the state he was in. Or, even worse, ask him why he was disgustingly dirty.

No one questioned Draco's whereabouts when he returned to the Slytherin dorms much later than expected; that was the way he expected it to be. Draco usually got what he wanted. Besides, everyone would find out tomorrow what had gone on... he froze, hand on the door to the seventh year room as that statement replayed itself over again. _Everyone would find out tomorrow what had gone on... _

Come on Potter, urged Draco silently as he kept his eyes trained on the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his rival's chest. He had been sitting there all night after convincing a sleepy-eyed Madam Pomfrey, at one o'clock in the morning that he could watch over Potter in case he should wake up. That was where when she had thrown a chair and said that he was not to lay one finger on him; if anything were to happen to Harry, she would know exactly whom the culprit was. He was quite lucky that she was tired and hadn't asked why he wanted to do this task because he couldn't honestly say so himself.

Potter was a constant itch that would not go away. He was like a leech that had attached himself to Draco and refused to let go until he was completely parched from any sort of emotion and left unable to concentrate upon anything else but him. _Potter_. He occupied every waking moment of Draco's time and even took up precious moments when he slept, _if_ he slept at all. Potter was Draco's rival in everything … except Potions, of course. Whatever Draco managed to accomplish, his enemy would succeed in as well, his fan club increasing in size after every achievement he made. This was the reason why it was so vital, so important, for this situation to not leak out; Draco did not need his father breathing down his neck this year, pushing him to outdo, to outwit, and to best Potter. This situation would surely tarnish his reputation, something of which he could not afford to do.

The sooner Golden Boy woke up, the sooner Draco could make sure that the previous nights events did not happen; well, at least not the part where he had voluntarily helped out Potter. There was absolutely no way that was getting around the school. Rumours spread like wildfire around Hogwarts, especially if it had anything to do with their precious Boy Who Lived.

That _name_, seethed Draco, his thin fingers curling into fists. What a stupid, boring name, and yet everyone knew it, everyone loved the person to whom it belonged. All for what? He was a year old when the Dark Lord had failed to rid the world of him. No one knew why and the situation was still the same seventeen years later. Draco had a suspicion that Dumbledore knew the whole story and it drove him mad that he was keeping silent about it. Was it to protect the walking 'magnet for danger'? Not that that idea made any sense; why not explain the whole picture and tell him _why_ Voldemort wanted him dead? It would make things so much easier.

Before Draco could continue pondering Dumbledore's idiocy, a slight movement caught his eye and he was standing over Potter within the blink of an eye. Watching as Potter's eyelids fluttered, a deep sense of relief poured through his veins, and Draco felt less stressed almost instantaneously. There was a short period of time when he thought that Potter might have landed himself in a coma. It would be a normal thing after landing on your head from such a high height. Yet again, though, Potter was showing everyone that somehow the rules did not apply to him.

Harry's head ached. Actually, Harry's whole body ached, it felt as though someone had taken one of Hagrid's rock cakes and beaten him until all of his bones were mangled. To say the pain was excruciating wasn't enough; it hurt to move, and even the slightest fluttering of his eyelids while trying to open them sent a searing pain ripping through his face. What on earth had happened? The last thing Harry could remember was flying in the middle of a horrendous downpour with his glasses flying off his nose; after that, his mind drew a blank.

Carefully, Harry managed to pry his eyes open, wincing as bright light shone, dilating his pupils into tiny specks in a sea of emerald green. It took a moment for him to shake the sleep-ridden fog that glazed his vision and when he looked up he was taken back to find himself nose to nose with a pale, pointed face. Harry was aggravated and wanted to know why Malfoy's face was less than an inch away from his own and why he was in the infirmary at all. Harry blinked dumbly a few times, wishing he had his glasses, then licked his chapped lips carefully, and poised himself to tell Malfoy to get the hell away from him.

"What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?" Harry hissed through dry lips, untangling his arms from the thick blankets that enveloped him. "Get off me." Grasping Malfoy's shoulders, he shoved the Slytherin as hard as he could, which wasn't much. That lousy push was enough to send pain searing up through his arms; it felt as though someone were taking a white-hot blade and searing through his arms and upper back and shoulders. The pain was more than excruciating and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, clenching the blanket and trying to prevent the tears that had sprung to his eyes from dripping messily down his face.

"Watch it, Potter!" Draco spat sharply while straightening out his robe. "Keep your filthy Mudblood-loving hands off me."

"What are you doing here?" Harry repeated softly, yet firmly, ignoring Malfoy's remark and tentatively reaching for his glasses from his bedside table. By the time he had them balanced on his nose, a thin line of sweat had broken out across his forehead. The pain caused by moving was almost unbearable and Malfoy's presence wasn't helping him at all. Slowly, Harry slid his hands to his lap and took a deep breath to help make the discomfort a little more tolerable.

Malfoy shook his head and let out a small, cold laugh as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Harry's eyes narrowed at this action. He was so annoying, to say the least! Just sitting there calmly, as though he did not have a care in the world. For heaven's sake, it was the first day back at Hogwarts and Malfoy was already harassing him; it was too much for Harry to handle at the moment. His patience had worn beyond thin.

"Were you watching me sleep? Waiting for your chance to kill me while I was vulnerable? How typical of you, you coward," Harry accused, watching as his rival approached once again. He stood an inch or two away from the bed.

"Don't flatter yourself! I have much better things to occupy my time with, in which watching you get your beauty rest - though it doesn't seem to do you much good - is the least of my priorities." Malfoy leaned over the bed, a slight smile playing on his lips. He lowered his voice to a whisper and took a step forward. "Besides, if I wanted to kill you, I would have left your disgraceful body laying unconscious on the Quidditch pitch and stomped on your oh-so-fashionable eyewear on my way back in."

Confusion spread across Harry's tired features. "What?"

"You, you stupid git, fell off your broom from twenty feet up. That is why I'm here! Trust you to almost make a splatter of yourself and not even give a thank you to the person who dragged you in... do you know how expensive my robes are?"

This time Harry opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, and then shut it again. "What did you say?" he asked, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, a little habit he had picked up after listening to something that just gave him a headache hearing. So, that meant almost every time Ron and Hermione argued -something that had begun happening quite a bit during the last few months of fifth year - he had a nice trick up his sleeve.

"My, my, it's a wonder you manage to pass your classes. You're ever so articulate."

"Shut up, Malfoy." Gods, Harry was not in the mood for him right now, not that he ever was.

"Oh, that was a good one. You'd think after six years you'd have thought up a better phrase than that."

"Look," snapped Harry, staring at the smug smile that Malfoy was currently displaying. Harry wanted nothing more than to rip his pointed face to shreds. He didn't deserve a thanks, let alone an acknowledgement for what he had presumably done. Harry would not believe that Draco Malfoy would have even got the tips of his shoes splattered with mud for him, not even if someone promised that he would never have to go back to the Dursley's again. Malfoy was just toying with his mind. Yes, that was it. However, it still did not explain why he was in the hospital wing. "Just say what you came here to say and then leave. Can't you just give me one day here without bugging me?"

"Fine," was the answer after a few moments of silence. Or maybe he didn't actually think about it, but either way the ease at which he gave in surprised Harry; Malfoy never gave him what he wanted when he asked. Slinking his way around to the other side of the bed, so that he could lean over Harry once again, Draco breathed, "I'll leave after you promise me one thing."'

"I'm not promising you anything."

"Then I'm not leaving and you'll have to endure my exceptionally witty comments until I feel like leaving."

Harry let out an exasperated sigh.

An hour! They had been sitting here for an hour, all because Potter refused to promise to listen to what Draco had to say. Why was he so stubborn? Probably because he was used to getting his own way all the time; the Boy Who Lived was too good to let anyone boss him around. Well, so was Draco. He was contemplating about giving in first, though, just so he could go to bed; not that he would ever let Potter know that.

Draco shifted restlessly in the plastic chair he had been sitting in before Potter had woken up. He had loosened his tie and taken off his robe so that he could relax a bit more. It had been such a foolish idea to change back into his robes, what had he been thinking? Had he actually expected Harry to listen to what he had to say after so many years of contempt towards each other? _Always be prepared_ is what his father always told him and he certainly wasn't prepared for Harry to decline. In fact, he did not even know why he had bothered to even come up there in the first place. All he had to do was deny anything Potter said and everything would be fine. Screw his father finding out; he had been so distracted of late that Draco could have told him that he wasn't friends with Crabbe and Goyle anymore and the older Malfoy wouldn't have even blinked an eye.

"So... where are those witty comments?" Potter asked, startling Draco out of his thoughts.

In a second Draco was on his feet and any evidence of being taken by surprise was erased from his face. Somehow, Malfoy resisted the urge to drag Potter out of bed and throw the smart mouth from the top of one of the staircases, preferably one that was in the process of re-locating, and instead settled on seething internally at his enemy's cheek.

"You're not worth my time, Potter," he muttered, grabbing his robe and pulling his arms through their appropriate openings. Malfoy tightened his tie and tucked it underneath it, giving a venomous glare at the bruised boy before heading for the door.

"I'm not worth your time now, am I?" Harry called out just as Draco touched the door handle.

"You've never been worth my time." Draco paused, his back still towards the occupied bed.

"I guess I wasn't worth your time when you helped me after I fell off my broom then, right?" Harry pointed out, his voice much softer than it had been only seconds before.

Slowly, Draco turned back around and folded him arms across his chest. "No," he replied coldly, "I should have left you out there until someone else found you, or better off, you died. And what happened to your loss of memory?"

Harry winced a little, let out a cough, and shrugged as best as he could. "What about it? I still don't remember anything and I only have your word to go by."

"Well then," Draco snapped, "all you have to do is keep your bloody trap shut about what happened and everything will be fine and dandy. I don't care what you tell those sniveling excuses you hang around with, just as long as you don't mention me. Watch what you say, Potter, or I'll make sure you'll never speak again."

There was a mischievous twinkle in Harry's eye, and the corners of his mouth were tugging upward, threatening to give away his amusement. It looked as though Malfoy didn't know whether he was coming or going. One minute he was acting as though he actually was human and then the other he was back to his icy facade. Harry should have figured out much earlier that all he had to do was twist Malfoy's words around to get under his skin.

"Is that a threat, Malfoy?"

The blond let the door slam shut behind him on his way out.

When Harry awoke the next morning, he was not the least bit surprised to hear Hermione and Ron arguing with Madam Pomfrey. Well, Ron was arguing and Hermione was telling him to calm down. Harry had known that his two best mates would have thought to check the infirmary, especially if he hadn't come back. He was in the hospital wing so often that the mediwitch often told him that she was going to reserve a bed especially for him.

"... and tell me why can't we go in and see him?" Ron roared, his voice carrying quite well from the direction of Madam Pomfrey's office. Harry could just imagine Ron's face turning into the colour of his flaming hair.

"Ron!" Hermione's voice sounded, carrying a warning tone within it. At the same time, the mediwitch exclaimed "Mr. Weasley!"

There was a few seconds of silence before Hermione scolded, "It's a wonder that we're even allowed in here with that voice of yours! It's enough to wake up the whole castle!"

"She is quite right, Mr. Weasley. I assure you that Mr. Potter is well on his way to recovery and should be released within the next twenty-four hours. As for right now, he needs his rest and it would be best if you come back after your classes. No need for you to be tardy on account of Mr. Potter, is there?"

"No..." Harry listened as Ron grumbled, "I guess we'd better go then, I'm starving."

Upon hearing Ron, Harry struggled into a sitting position, leaning heavily against the many pillows that lay behind him. In this position he had a clear view of both Madam Pomfrey's office door and the one leading in and out of the hospital wing; he'd also be able to at least let Ron and Hermione know that he was alright so that they wouldn't worry.

The moment his two friends had been shooed out the door, Harry called out Hermione's name.

"Harry!" she exclaimed, crossing the room to throw her arms around her black and blue tinged friend. Ron was only footsteps behind her and he clapped a large freckled hand on Harry's shoulder once Hermione had pulled away.

"You okay, mate?" ask Ron, removing his hand once noticing the agonized twist Harry's mouth had curled into at the touch. "What happened?"

"I..." Harry began, taking a moment to flash a smile, "... fell off my broom."

Hermione's hand slid to her mouth and she shook her head disapprovingly. "What have I told you about that sport?" she accused, looking as though she were holding back the urge to wag her finger.

"I wasn't playing Quidditch, or practicing." Harry replied defensively. "I was just doing laps and I didn't notice as the storm closed in. The wind picked up and it was raining heavily as I was making my way back across the field. I guess I slipped."

"See?" Ron pointed out, "I told you he was fine. Harry knows how to take care of himself, right? Made it back here in one piece, didn't he?"

"You weren't saying that he was fine ten minutes ago, Ron."

Ron's face tinged with a faint pink blush. "Shut up, you," he said lightly.

"Why are you bruised" Hermione asked, ignoring Ron's comment and looking down at her friend. "Didn't Madam Pomfrey fix you up?"

"Of course I did," huffed the mediwitch as she emerged from her office. "He was unconscious when he arrived in here and in a much worse state than he is now. I performed the most crucial spells and left everything that could wait until he had awoken. Now, didn't I ask you two to skedaddle? Shoo!" She gave a glare at the two standing students and pointed towards the door. "Now!"

"Bye, Harry! We'll come back after classes with your homework!" said Hermione, quickly removing herself from Pomfrey's vicinity. To this Ron rolled his eyes and gave a quick wave.

"You're lucky- you get to miss Potions today. Snape's even more of a git on the first day!" He tossed a goofy grin over his shoulder and then he was out of sight.

Harry smiled as he settled down to make himself more comfortable, wondering how on earth he had managed to find two friends who were so absolutely wonderful.

True to their word, Hermione and Ron returned within minutes of the last class of the day. Both were panting slightly as they entered the hospital wing, Hermione with Harry's book satchel slung over her shoulder and Ron with Hermione's materials as well as his own under each arm.

Harry was almost giddy as his friends settled themselves at his bedside. It was great to have some visitors as Madam Pomfrey had removed almost everyone who had tried to enter the room to see him. Without anyone to talk to, Harry had been immensely bored. He wasn't allowed to leave the bed, even though he looked and felt perfectly fine now. She had finally healed the bruises earlier that afternoon; the colouring was gone and so was most of the soreness, but if he hit the wrong spot against something a dull ache would emerge.

"You wouldn't believe Potions today!" exclaimed Ron, his voice laced with characteristic anger as he slammed both his and Hermione's books down on the bedside table. This action evoked the bushy haired girl's voice to rise in a very menacing tone.

"Ronald Weasley! Don't you dare take out your frustrations on my property! Just because you and Pansy were paired up today does not give you the right to throw my books around! You need to learn how to think before you act!" Hermione scolded, wagging her finger at Ron in a very uncanny resemblance to Molly Weasley.

"So, how did you get end up paired with Parkinson today?" inquired Harry just as the red head opened his mouth. There was no better way to distract Ron Weasley than to let him rant on about something.

"By doing nothing... as bloody usual." Ron frowned. "It was just Snape's usual way of torturing us Gryffindors." He paused. "At least I didn't get Malfoy."  
  
Malfoy. Harry's ears perked up at the sound of the name.

"Poor Neville got paired with the smarmy prat. Malfoy wouldn't let him touch anything. On top of that, Snape was on his back for just sitting there. I tell you..." Ron shook his head, settling down in one of the chairs that was set against the wall, "I don't know how Neville has managed to get this far."

"He's not that awful, you know," piped in Hermione, who had retrieved her set of books from the table and set Harry's bag on the bed. "He's actually quite bright if he's not anxious or nervous." She settled down in a chair as well, inspecting each of her books. When she was satisfied that they weren't damaged, she began to pull out Harry's belongings for him. She shoved Harry's Transfiguration text into his hand.

"I better explain this to you," she told him, flipping the pages to the middle and pointing to a section titled 'Animagi'. "McGonagall said that some of the final year was going to be spent on researching the spell used. We won't be doing the actual spell in class, but she thought it would be wise if she taught us the proper incantations should someone decide to try it in the future... or try it on their own."

Once Hermione had opened the textbook, Ron pretended to stretch out his arms and let out a loud, dramatic yawn.

"Well, since I've already sat through most of these classes already, I think I'm going to go and have a bit of a fly around the grounds. Don't want anyone taking my position come try-outs, do I?" He stood, letting his long legs unfold themselves. Ron gathered his books under his arm and gave a nod before quickly exiting the infirmary.

Hermione shook her head at her friend and continued on, handing Harry a bit of parchment with that night's homework on it. Well, the homework from the classes that he shared with her and the ones he shared with Ron.

It was nearing suppertime by the time Hermione had finished explaining his work. Harry wondered what the use was in going to classes if his friend could teach it to him in a less complicated manner.

"Thanks," he said gratefully. He probably could have gone to classes today if Pomfrey would just give in and release him. He felt perfectly fine and except for the occasional ache, he was only bothered that he was confined to his bed. He should have gotten Ron to bring him the cloak earlier on.

"No problem," she answered over her shoulder. Hermione was quickly putting away her things, undoubtedly in a hurry to get back to the common room so that she could do her own homework. Unfortunately, she was not watching what she was doing and when she placed her Potions text on the top of the pile of books on Harry's bed, the whole stack toppled over.

It was then he saw his journal.


End file.
